


Memories

by AlacritiousEidolon (p_3a)



Series: NaNoWriMo 2015 [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Abusive Parents, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nightmares, Parent Death, Post-Break Up, Sex Work, corruption scare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/AlacritiousEidolon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories in which Wrathion recalls various memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eye-Opening

The first time they’d kissed, it had been Anduin who had initiated.

Wrathion hadn’t even realised what was  _happening_ , at first. They’d been talking, and then suddenly Anduin was pressing their faces together. Anduin had backed off, though, when he’d realised Wrathion wasn’t reciprocating… whatever it was.

“Was… I mean, was that not what you wanted?” he’d said, his big blue eyes gazing down at Wrathion with a faint sheen of tears.  
“I—” Wrathion had tensed, realising he’d messed something up. He hadn’t even known  _what_  he’d messed up. “I don’t know what it was,” he’d confessed, seeing no alternative.

Anduin had blinked, some of the tears spilling down his face, but they cleared after that. “Oh! I—” he’d laughed, and Wrathion had shrunk down a little. “I’m sorry… I forget you’re a dragon sometimes,” he’d said, scratching his cheek. “I kissed you.”

Wrathion’s eyes had flown wide with recognition. “Oh!  _That’s_  what— in all those books,” he’d said, his face growing redder. “I never…”  
“It’s fine,” Anduin had smiled. “Would you… like to kiss again?”

“I think I would,” Wrathion had said, with conviction this time. “Yes, Anduin Wrynn. I think I would.”


	2. Paranormal

“Anomaly detected…” Wrathion had  _scowled_. “ _Anomaly_?!”

He’d  _known_  it was the Sha. Given the context, it  _had_  to be. They’d been in Pandaria, in a Titan forge room. Of  _course_  there would be Sha.

Yet somehow, hearing that phrase again… he’d forced an alacritious grin to his face, not wanting his champion to know of his worries, and said something witty. Then he’d turned his gaze back to the control panel and tried to concentrate on doing what they were here for - forging his weapon.

But the little alarm light had flashed in the corner of the user interface, over and over, and Wrathion didn’t stop sweating until well after it was gone.


	3. Repressed

It had just been a nightmare.

 _Just_  a nightmare. But he’d woken suddenly, and the first thing he’d realised was that he was lying in bed next to Anduin Wrynn.

The  _second_  thing he’d noticed was that the bed was soaked through.

He didn’t remember this, very often. He didn’t remember what happened next at  _all_ , except that they somehow ended up on the Folly together, wrapped in each other’s arms and watching the sun rise. Obviously, Anduin had woken, comforted him, offered to take a walk with him; obviously. But Wrathion didn’t remember it. He must have dissociated.

He wished he could forget the whole thing, more often than not.


	4. Sibling

Wrathion had always known it was theoretically  _possible_  that Sabellian was still alive. He’d just never expected that theory to be  _substantiated_.

He’d been very, very careful about how to proceed from there. One wrong move, one misplaced agent, one slip of a missive and it could all go up in smoke. Possibly literally. He stood no chance in a face-to-face battle with a drake as ancient as Sabellian, especially without a champion to back him up as he’d had when Fahrad had fallen. So caution was key.

He still had them monitoring Sabellian now. He didn’t seem to be a threat to anyone, in the middle of the mountains where he was, with no connection to mortal civilisations and surprisingly few instances of erratic or violent behaviour. So the Blacktalon Watchers simply watched.

But Wrathion would still never forget the shock he felt the first time he heard that, not only did he have a living sibling somewhere, but they didn’t immediately seem to be corrupted beyond all reason.

Shock, and… hope.


	5. Death and Loss

It had been five days before it had really hit him.

He was in a cave in some Titan-forsaken mountain range somewhere. He didn’t particularly care to remember where, exactly. He’d been cold, and he’d called out in the dark with a peep - expecting, as had happened so many times before, that Fahrad would come to his aid with a blanket or a hot-rock or somesuch. Somehow, the man always knew exactly what he needed just from a single such peep.

But of course, by that point, it had all made sense. Of course Fahrad had known what he needed from his whelpish little mewls. Fahrad was a dragon. Fahrad was a corrupted dragon. Fahrad was a  _dead_  dragon.

It had struck him all at once. The grief had gone through him like a spear - and he had not stopped peeping until well past morning.


	6. Fading

It only really bothered him when he was falling asleep.

It was always the pleasant things that faded first. The little things, that had meant  _so much_  at the time - especially to Wrathion, who’d thought he would never have anything resembling a friendship, let alone anything more intimate. The Jihui games he thought he’d be able to remember forever; the ins and outs of who went first, who made the winning move. What they’d said to each other on victory. Who it was, exactly, that suggested they walk up to Mason’s Folly - he forgot that, too, and unless he really thought about it, sometimes he forgot what they’d talked about once they were up there.

He rolled over onto his stomach, hugging his pillow to his chin, and sighed. It really shouldn’t bother him as much as it did, he thought. Everyone forgot things. Especially things related to people who weren’t even  _talking_  to them any more.

He tried to ignore the tears slipping down his cheeks. There was no point to any of this.


	7. May or may not have happened

He remembered being dragged across the floor.

He remembered being snipped at with something sharp, and his wing broken.

He remembered being killed.

He remembered hard rocks bumping along his scales. Teeth around his neck. A bright, shining light. He remembered crying out for his parents. He remembered being ripped to pieces. He remembered that they didn’t come until after it was too late - when his mother’s sorrow, and his mother’s fury, chased him half-way across the continent. When his father’s madness saw his pain, and tried to end it.

But… maybe it didn’t happen that way. Who knows, he thought, as Left pushed another mug of hot tea into his hands, insistent on consoling him from what must have been a very bad nightmare. Who knows.


	8. Romance and Love

“Anduin Wrynn, are we…”

Anduin’s blue eyes had looked down at him, all ashine and twinkling in the setting sunlight. They weren’t vivid blue - more of the muted, sophisticated grey that Wrathion had grown to be so  _very_  fond of. He could look at those eyes forever, he felt. Not because they were particularly remarkable in their own right. Which they were also. But because they belonged to  _Anduin Wrynn._

“What  _are_  we?” he’d eventually settled on, flapping his hands just a little in frustration.  
Anduin had tilted his head, that  _ridiculously handsome_  hair of his falling  _just right_  over his face and making Wrathion want nothing more than to bury his face in it. He didn’t, of course. That would’ve been undignified. “Well…” Anduin had scratched his cheek in thought. “What do you think?”  
“What do I  _think_ , or what do I  _want_?”

Anduin had thought about that. “What do you want,” he’d eventually decided.  
“I…” Wrathion had made a frustrated little noise, his fists trembling by his sides. “I don’t  _know_  what I want! I’ve never done this before!”  
“It’s okay!” Anduin had held up his hands. “It’s okay. That’s okay. We don’t have to decide anything specific,” he’d said, lowering them slightly. “We can just… carry on. Doing what we feel like. We don’t have to make it anything official.”

His face had been so  _earnest_ …

Before he could give himself time to think about what he was doing, Wrathion had thrown himself into a hug. And to his eternal thankfulness, Anduin Wrynn had returned it.


	9. Friend

“Wrathion? Do you think of us as friends?”

Wrathion had blinked, blaming the rush of blood to his cheeks on the cool Kun Lai wind blustering against his skin. Did… did he?

He and Anduin Wrynn had spent a lot of time together, over that last year. Laughing and sharing; arguing, sometimes. Bonding. Kissing, and… …some. Some other things, too.

Friends? Were they friends? He’d tilted his head to one side, pursing his lips. Anduin had been amused, at that little habit, a little smirk twitching at his cheeks - though it could easily have been a wince at the sunlight or the winds, too. Wrathion hadn’t dwelled on the matter.

He’d thought about those times they’d had together. But he also thought about the fact that he could never truly prioritise another being the way one was supposed to, with one’s friends. Or with one’s… lovers. He had a destiny, a duty - to keep Azeroth safe, above all other things. Even handsome things. Kind things. Loved things.

Were they friends..?

“Yes,” he’d said, at last. “As much as I can have a friend, at any rate.”

Anduin had smiled ruefully, at the amendment - and Wrathion’s heart had hurt.


	10. Sexual

He’d be lying if he tried to say he hadn’t enjoyed doing those things just a  _little_.

Of course, he didn’t do it any longer. But back at the Tavern, it was at least once a week. He’d finish his business with his champions for the day, then steal away upstairs and…

…see some more of his champions. In a rather different way.

Early on, Wrathion had learned that different mortals responded positively to very different things.

Some were plied easily with simple money - they were the simplest to work with, yet also the least reliable, as they could easily be bought off him by anyone with more monetary assets at their disposal.

Some - the majority, he found - liked the promise of prestigious rewards, and he tailored the majority of his plans around the idea that he would be providing such legendary items.

A handful enjoyed the premise of saving the world, but Wrathion found these to be both fickle and far-between.

Some - the most loyal, he’d learned, but also the most difficult to successfully attain - enjoyed being made to feel wanted  _emotionally._  Even romantically.  _If_  they were worth it, Wrathion wasn’t above toying with their affections to gain their services.

And then there were the champions he saw after dark. The ones who were best plied with promises of salacious sensations between the sheets. And, again…  _if_  they were worth it… Wrathion found it in his heart to strike deals with them. Smirked murmerings of all manners of wonderful tricks; things he’d picked up at Ravenholdt, or even making small talk with some of Madam Goya’s  _sub-contractors._  And then, of course, like all good businessfolk, he followed through.

Never anything that required him to remove his own clothing. _Obviously_. But other than that, for a particularly powerful or strategic champion? Anything, as they say, had gone.


	11. Father

“ _Mercy? There is no mercy! You will burn for this, dragon!_ ”

Wrathion had been miles away, already, when those words had been spat. But he’d heard them. They’d shaken him to his bones.

It was all he’d ever heard his father say to him, directly. A threat to a dragon not even himself. A vague implication of wanting to put him out of his misery. The only acknowledgement of his existence he could ever expect from  _Deathwing_.

He had nightmares about it.

Years later - two years, to be precise - he’d gone to see Chi-Ji, the Great Red Crane of Hope. The Crane spoke of redemption, dreams - and healing. And then…

“ _There is no shelter from my fury!_ ”

He had nightmares about it.

He dreamed of flames consuming the world. Cold, evil forces ripping towns up from their very foundation. Stamping them out like castles in the sand. He dreamed of the world drowning in its own blood; the life-force being ripped from the very ground, the very people who made their homes on it. And he woke sharp, scared.

It was the same thing, really. A malevolent originator, whose legacy for Azeroth he was ultimately to be faced with cleaning up. He’d like to say the difference was that people didn’t suspect him of becoming similar to Sargeras when he was older - only, there were plenty of conspiracy theories on those rag tabloids that he was just that. A spiritual inheritor of Medivh’s legacy; not that half of them even _knew_  about Medivh’s possession. They just wanted to tear him down.

He had nightmares about it. And he tried, very hard, to ignore them.


	12. Mother

She’d been frightened.

That was the first thing Wrathion remembered. The very first thing that any of his memories contained. And, sure. This hadn’t happened to  _him_. It had happened to the whelp whose head would go on to be _his_  head. But he remembered it.

She’d been frightened, and she’d wanted to promise her children that she would protect them. Somehow, Whelp-Who-Would-Be-Wrathion had known that it was Nyxondra’s job - as a dragon with her gender, the ra gender - to protect the young. But she couldn’t promise it. Not this time.

She’d been sad.

This was after Whelp-Who-Would-Be-Wrathion had been taken from his mother. (The whelp was going to be an ion dragon, just like Wrathion was, in the end. He remembered that too.) Her sorrow held no limits, he knew, and in his egg he trembled, longing for his mother and his siblings. His poor brood… he was all alone, and his mother, held prisoner miles away, called out for him in the night.

And then… she’d been  _furious._

She sensed what had happened to her one remaining whelp. The Whelp-Who-Would-Be-Wrathion was torn to pieces, the bad parts of him ripped out and replaced with good parts from other whelps he’d never met. It  _hurt_. He’d cried. He’d cried  _so much_ , as he was pulled apart - murdered and remade. And then…

“ _We will rage, mortals!_ ”

He named himself after that rage. Wrath. A constant reminder that his mother had desperately wanted to care for him, to protect him, to raise him and love him. How furious she was that she was not able; how wrathful she’d been to those who had made it so.

Wrath. Wrathion.

He dearly hoped his mother had found rest in death.


	13. Vivid

_“You don’t have to do it this way!”_

He  _had_  needed to. He’d made up his mind. He’d set his plan.

_“We can work together!”_

Could they? Wrathion had doubted it. He’d doubted it very much. Anduin had been so very firmly _against_  every single method that Wrathion knew he would have to employ, in future. He’d always balked when Wrathion tried to talk about his view on life. Wrathion was too dark. Too complicated. Too _unpleasant_  for Stormwind’s shining Prince.

_“We can find some way to–”_

Wrathion had heard enough.

 _“Farewell for now, young Prince,”_  Wrathion had said.

Afterwards, he had nightmares about how  _easy_ it had been to quench Anduin Wrynn’s consciousness.


	14. Childhood

Wrathion wished he could say that his first memory was one of true childhood.

That it was one of playing with his parents, loving and giving. That he had been sampling some food for the first time; learning a language in a classroom (how quaint, the idea that children would learn things together, to one who was fated to be alone). Even a memory like so many of his Blacktalons’ firsts - of bitter arguments between parents, the crushing loneliness of poverty, of a sibling’s shattering words.

But no. His first memory was one of being cut to pieces. And his first memory of what he could describe as childhood was not much better.

He had stayed in his egg far too long, you see. Far too long for any whelp, but especially for one of his starting position - a mis-match of parts, some far too large to be sustained by any yolk, some far too small to be deprived of such nutrients during their development. Yet all had to rely on a single yolk for long enough that Wrathion could secure his escape from the gilded cage the Red Dragonflight wished him to call his home.

And so on the day of his hatching, he almost didn’t hatch at all.

He remembered trying to push the shell; finding it too large, too heavy, too thick. Broad fingers pried at the cracks he’d made with his egg-horn, the sharp cartilage on his nose which he’d only been lucky enough had survived the harrowing creation process he’d been through. It took long enough that by the time a gap had been pulled open, his lungs were burning, begging for breath. The egg sac too proved a challenge; most whelps would have gnawed through it without a second thought, but once again Wrathion’s malnourished body betrayed him, his jaw weak and tiring far quicker than what was practical for accomplishing the task at hand.

Once or twice, he almost consigned himself to death. Surely a creature as wretched as himself, as pathetic and small, could only deserve such a fate? A creature so lost and defective, burned to pieces even before he had begun his life, and now struggling to accomplish the most basic of tasks? If he could not even hatch from his egg as his father had, how could he hope to mend the wounds in the world that his father had rended so viciously.

Yet if his existence was so inconsequential, then surely its continuation would be equally so. And besides: he had set himself a task. This world was his to protect from the horrors he’d witnessed in the Blue Child’s databanks. It was imperative that he press on.

And so, with Fahrad’s profuse assistance, Wrathion was brought into the world. He was freed from the shell of his egg; he was brought into the warmth of the heat lamps, a poor imitation of the lava and magma he should have hatched in the presence of. He had meat placed in his mouth; and when he proved too weak to chew it, it was replaced with a nutritious mush for him, and he swallowed that. He was presented with water; and when, again, he could not lift his head to drink from it, it was brought to his mouth with a pipette.

Bit by bit, day by day, he grew in strength. And like many of his Blacktalons, he longed for the day when he could leave the vulnerability of childhood behind and become, truly, himself.

 


	15. Relative

He’d always been so strangely kind; that was the most bizarre thing about the whole affair.

Stranger than the fact he was a dragon in disguise, not detected by even the most astute of the world’s rogues and spies. Stranger than the fact he’d decided to aid Wrathion at all, given the whelp was the most subversive thing on the planet as far as his dark masters were concerned. A black dragon, born free of the taint; free of the dark rope around the neck of every other. Threatening, indeed.

No - the strangest thing was that in helping Wrathion, he’d decided to be kind.

He would gently awaken Wrathion in the morning with some meat to eat and hot water to help waken him (no sugar or bean paste or dried leaves, or any other such things that humans enjoyed which would poison a dragon as young as Wrathion was). He would carry him down the stairs when he was feeling sick or tired, and soothe him to sleep when the nightmares troubled him well through the night.

And, sure. He withheld certain knowledge from Wrathion - knowledge such as the correct diet for a whelp of his age, for if Fahrad was parlay to such information then surely his cover would be blown and Lord Ravenholdt would oust him (or, worse, agents of the Worldbreaker would finally catch up to him). But he did his best within the limitations of his station. Wrathion knew that.

He was torn, these days, between bitterness at the memories and fond remembrance. Fahrad had tried. He had… not always done quite as well as he would have done. But perhaps it was understandable, given the circumstances. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault. And despite how Wrathion still suffered for the malnourishment he had gone through, despite how he still pined for the lost cultures and rituals of his Flight before their corruption… he could, truly, only bring himself to be grateful for Fahrad’s help.

And the image of Fahrad’s death would, Wrathion believed, haunt him until the last of his days.

 

 


End file.
